


A Clockwork Orange

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [19]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage, Sussex, alternate first meeting, uni-lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: John Watson needs a copy of a certain book.  A stranger named Sherlock Holmes has the last copy in the bookstore.  Tea and Victoria Sponge happen.





	

**Author's Note:**

> How about a bit of fluff? Not that this particular book title has much fluff. But I think it works. Hope you agree!
> 
> Wanted to get this posted before I depart for 221B con. If anyone here will be going, look me up! I will be the one in the I [Heart] Sherlock Season 4 teeshirt…
> 
> Meanwhile, enjoy and let me know what you think.

Truth be told, John Watson had very little interest in a course entitled Masterworks of British Literature Since WWII. Really _very_ little interest. But Evie Howell was very keen on it, so like the dutiful boyfriend he considered himself to be, John enrolled as well. Then, sadly, only a fortnight into the term, Evie decided that she preferred Brazilian literature after all. Or at least that she preferred a tall bronzed Brazilian polo player who had probably never read an entire book in his life to a short blond rugby playing pre-med student.

Evie disappeared from the class and from John’s life on the same day.

Annoyingly, John was stuck in the damned class, because it was by now too late to drop his enrolment without paying a penalty. And unlike some people [AKA the unlamented Ms Howell] _his_ father was not a prosperous solicitor, so he could not afford to drop the course. Anyway, he didn’t want it on his CV that John Watson was a quitter when he applied to medical school in the spring.

All of which explained why, late on a Saturday afternoon, he was prowling the bookstore, trying to find a copy of A Clockwork Orange. He located the Bs in the fiction section and then Burgess, A. “Great,” he muttered. “Maybe I can make it to the pub on time.”

He saw Honey For the Bears. Nothing Like the Sun. Tremor of Intent.

But no A Clockwork Orange.

John swore under his breath.

“I have the last copy of A Clockwork Orange,” a voice said from behind him.

John turned around. “You’re not in the literature class, are you?” he asked.

As it happened, John was already 99% sure that this bloke was not in the class, because he would definitely remember if he’d ever seen him before. _Ever_ before, not just in the class over the last month.

The stranger was sprawled elegantly in a too-small wooden chair that could not ever really hope to accommodate his limbs. Tall and thin. Pale as a vampire. He was wearing a tight white dress shirt and black trousers. And a black bowler hat that barely restrained what looked to be a mass of dark curls. One earring. A nose ring. A lower lip ring. And eye makeup.

No, for sure if this bloke had been sitting in the literature class, John would have taken note. Right at this moment, he took note that the guy had a sort of unearthly beauty; maybe, John thought, that bloody literature class was affecting him more than he’d anticipated, because never before had he thought that anyone, male or female, had unearthly beauty. It was almost like poetry, right?

The nicely shaped lips formed a frown. “Are only members of some mediocre class allowed to read the book? That sounds very like censorship to me.”

John felt his cheeks heat and knew that he was blushing. “No, no, of course not. But you won’t be tested on it next week, either.” He stopped concentrating on the cheekbones that looked as if they could cut you, which suddenly sounded like a pretty good idea. The book was being held in one long-fingered hand and wasn’t opened. John glared. “You’re not even reading it, are you?”

There was an almost smile. Or smirk, actually. “Fiction? No, not really my thing.”

“Then why do you have it?”

Whoever he was stretched his endless legs out into the aisle. “Well, that is interesting.”

Of course it would be interesting. Someone who looked like this would have nothing to do with anything _boring._

Up until the day he died, many, many years later, John Watson would never know where he got the courage to say what he said next. But they were important words that would shape the rest of his life. “Want to go downstairs and have some tea? Or coffee? Or…whatever?”

“Are you trying to charm me into giving you the book?”

“Is there a chance that I might?”

Now that was definitely a smile. “Stranger things have happened, I suppose.” He stood. And stood, until he was very definitely much taller than John.

They exchanged names as they walked down the stairs to the ground floor café. By this point the fact that the bloke had a name like Sherlock came as no surprise at all.

In short order, they had acquired two cups of tea and a slice of Victoria sponge to share and were sitting at a table in the rear of the café.

John chewed and swallowed a bite of the cake. “So,” he said, “tell me something interesting.”

Sherlock just looked at him for a moment. “It is rather interesting that a pre-med student heading into the military seems so invested in a literature course, I think.”

John paused in lifting the cup to his mouth, “What?” His eyes narrowed. “How do you know all of that?”

“Obvious.”

“It’s not obvious to me.” John finally drank some tea.

Sherlock was nibbling a tiny piece of the cake. “Well, that’s because you’re an idiot. Oh, don’t look like that. Almost everyone is.”

It was probably wrong, John realised, that he was more amused than insulted by what this ridiculous git said. “Oh, I see. It must make your life so difficult that you are forced to spend time with us mere mortals.”

“You have no idea.” Belatedly Sherlock seemed to realise that he was being teased. He frowned. But then he just gave a wave. “You seem less idiotic than most, John.”

He decided to take that as a compliment. “What I actually meant was, tell me the interesting story of why you have the last copy of A Clockwork Orange when you aren’t on the course or even very interested in reading it.”

“It’s for a case.”

John had been taking another bite of the cake, but he stopped. “A case? Are you a…cop?” The scepticism was obvious in his voice.

“God no. Can you imagine anything more boring? I am a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I invented the job,” he added with the pride clear.

“So not a student at all?”

“Yes, of course. I’m reading chemistry. But I am capable of doing more than one thing at a time.”

“Okay. Next question: what the hell is a consulting detective?”

Sherlock licked a bit of jam from his index finger, which was a lot more interesting than it should have been. “When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they come to me.”

“Really?” John watched as Sherlock [obviously] tried to think of some way to evade the truth.

Finally, he just shrugged. “Well, that is the theory. But they are being stupid about it. One day, they’ll come around. I do have one aspiring detective inspector I am cultivating.” For a moment, it almost seemed as if Sherlock were embarrassed about something. “There have been a few issues, but I am working on them.”

Whatever those ‘issues’ were, Sherlock obviously didn’t want to talk about them.

“What about this case, then?”

“It’s for a private client. His daughter is dating a uni drop-out with an unusual life style.”

“Okay…”

“He fancies himself as some kind of rebel outlaw. Apparently this book inspired him. And while I have no interest in reading it, I did enough research to know what I need to do to make contact.” Sherlock pushed his empty cup away. “He was supposed to turn up here tonight, but…”

John grinned. “But I turned up instead.”

Sherlock refused to meet his gaze. “That’s…good,” he mumbled. “You turning up...is good.”

And John just kept smiling.

*

Two days later, Sherlock texted John to say that he had finished the investigation of the wayward boyfriend, which had lead to a rather noisy break-up. Better yet, he’d gotten paid. 

_Dinner?_ SH

_Starving._

John was a few minutes late getting to the Italian restaurant Sherlock had suggested. He stood in the doorway and scanned the diners, looking for the other man. No sign of him…until a smile sent John’s way from the corner looked familiar. No bowler hat, just a mass of carefully disarrayed curls. No piercings [or no fake piercings, apparently]. And now Sherlock was wearing a tailored black suit and a deep purple shirt.

John made his way through the tables, both eyes on Sherlock. His bemusement must have been obvious on his face, because an already familiar smirk appeared.

“I was undercover, John.” The ‘obviously’ was implied

“Of course.” 

When Angelo, the restaurant owner and apparently a fan of Sherlock Holmes, brought a candle to their table, saying it was ‘more romantic’ neither of them lodged an objection.

*

They had too bloody many books.

Some of them were easy to get rid of. The paperback mysteries, which John loved to read and Sherlock loved to mock. Old medical textbooks that were by now very out-dated. John leafed through several anyway, enjoying the messy scribbles that Sherlock had added over the years, mostly disputing the contents. Even a few poetry books that neither John nor Sherlock would lay claim to.

The discard pile continued to grow. Of course there were bookcases in the cottage, but really there was no sense in paying to move things that were surplus to requirements. The most important books, the collected editions of John’s tales about the famous Consulting Detective and his stalwart companion, had already been carefully packed away by Sherlock himself.

Sherlock, at the moment, was in the kitchen [lab] sorting through equipment. His discard box was considerably less full.

John shifted a heavy forensic volume and found a still brightly coloured but rather battered paperback. He pulled it out carefully and the memories swept in, nearly drowning him. After a moment, he held the book up. “Look what I found, love.”

Sherlock raised his head and removed his eyeglasses to see what John was holding up. A smile touched his lips and he walked slowly into the sitting room, taking the book from John. “It has held up pretty well over the past forty-five years,” he murmured.

John pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the stiffness in his knees. “Are you talking just about the book?” he asked with a smile.

Sherlock planted what seemed like an absent-minded kiss in John’s silver hair. ‘Seemed like’ because John knew very well that the old idiot continued to catalogue every single kiss. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s still slender figure and held on.

“I am talking about everything,” Sherlock said.

They just stood there for a few moments, breathing in tandem.

“Keep this book,” Sherlock said.

“Of course.”

Then they both remembered that the van would be coming first thing in the morning and that they had to be ready to shift everything to Sussex. So there was one more kiss, this time a proper one, in which John could taste the honey from Sherlock’s morning toast, and then they each got back to work.

John hummed an old song that he could no longer remember the name of, but which he did remember dancing to at their wedding. 

A low chuckle came from the kitchen. “Sentiment,” Sherlock said.

“Sentiment,” John agreed as he tucked A Clockwork Orange carefully into the box.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess


End file.
